I'm Dreaming of an Existential Christmas
by Alexishy Reignbeaux Dance
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and England goes to church in order to make a good impression. Seems like a good time for philosophical thought. Good thing America's there to help him out of it. Beta-ed by NightimeNightmare, although admittedly, I don't always listen to her, so all remaining mistakes are my own. Rated T because some people are offended by religion.


England does not normally attend church, for obvious reasons. Nothing against Christianity - on the contrary, he takes pride in the fact that his nation is among the few that are rooted in culture, beauty, and the arts as opposed to technology and science - it's just that attending church often (that is, always) makes him consider topics that he would rather leave untouched. Some topics should never be pondered by Nations.

England is infinitely older than he looks, although he is not old as far as Nations go. However, he is far from young in that aspect as well, and that gets him thinking. The power of conscious thought is not a blessing when you are as old as the nation you represent, capable of living until said nation rests at the bottom of the ocean, and maybe even longer, considering Prussia and Rome. England remembers times when soil was soil and sky was sky, without borders and boundaries and property rights. Indeed, he has nothing but time, because although each hour of each day drags on like an eternity, years and decades are nothing to Nations who have all the time in the world to kill.

But he digresses. Church, spirituality, the question of souls and gods and the afterlife – every Nation has questioned it at some point in their infinite life, and each one regrets it, for there is no answer to any question they may raise. What god would waste time on a Nation, who never dies and must share his soul with millions of citizens? Are Nations who are not nations (Prussia and Sealand, for example) able to be killed? If so, do they have a soul of their own, since they have no one to share it with? And if so, where would they go after death? What kind of god would they pray to, if prayer were something characteristic of them?

And now England is bitterly regretting attending church, a Catholic Christmas Eve service, despite his boss's request: "William could take over any time now, and I want you to make a good impression on him. There's nothing I can do about his ascension, but I can be sure that you're not miserable for the next half of a century." England loves his boss dearly, as if she were family, but she fails to see the point: In his perspective, she may as well have taken the throne last week. Time is nothing, and human impressions can be corrected. The sanity of an immortal is more difficult to amend.

"England?"

The troubled Nation looks up from where he is staring – the now-unoccupied pulpit of the recently-vacated church. He is the only one left sitting in the pews, which is fine because he kind of needs to be alone right now. But America is a welcome sight to see despite it all.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, not meaning to be rude, even though it most likely sounds that way.

America's face is set in an uncharacteristic frown, although not marred by harsh expression. The serious demeanour suits him surprisingly well, although England notices a hint of the sadness of recognition in the American's eyes. He appears much older than the nineteen physical years he has earned.

"I came by to say Merry Christmas, but I was told that you had gone to church." There was no judgement or question in his tone, but England still felt the need to avert his eyes, facing forward again in lieu of meeting the unobstructed sapphire gaze boring into his self-confidence. He understands what has not been said: America heard he was in church and got worried. Honestly, England can't blame his former charge for being concerned; he behaves similarly when told that the Briton has been out drinking. Perhaps these debates with himself are a similar guilty pleasure.

America sits down silently, and England asks the only question he can think of to fill the silence. "Where's Texas?"

He does not expect America to bow his head and touch his breast pocket, where England knows America sometimes keeps his relief from near-sightedness. _Everything's bigger in Texas_, he will often joke. But there is no hint of his jovial nature when he replies, "I can't see very clearly out of them any more."

England asks no more questions on the matter, knowing exactly what America means but knowing not why it is distressing him so much. However, that is a conversation for another time and place, a time and place that America feels comfortable with, because it is obvious that he is out of his element here.

"Do you believe in God, America?"

"No," is the surprising answer, although it shouldn't be. England's known America long enough and well enough to be able to know how his mind works. "Do you?"

That requires an answer that neither of them have time for, so he simply says, "I'd like to. I'd like everything to be that simple, but whether I actually believe or not, I can't say."

"Well, you believe in some devil, don't you? You practice black magic, summon demons occasionally, so shouldn't that mean that you believe in a god too?"

_You're wrong_, England thinks. _There can be evil at work without an equal force of good. One cannot know true happiness without knowing true pain._ But he says none of this, because undoubtedly America already knows both all too well.

"England, why are you here?"

"I don't know," he responds with a sigh. "I know I shouldn't be. . . . But I think some part of me can't stay away sometimes."

"Everyone needs to consider the taboo before they can even begin to know balance. No one who's sane can be blissfully ignorant all the time."

This is all too true. But all the same, "I don't think any of us can ever be sane. There's too much to think about and too much time to do it."

"Then linger on the happy memories, the facts. Think of times that make you smile, times before borders and ownership, and don't even let yourself think about thinking about the future because no one can really know what happens there."

America is wise beyond his years. He's experienced just as much as the oldest of them, if not more, and in a much shorter span of time, and that has made him knowledgeable. But he hides this wisdom a few layers down, masked by charisma and cheer, because he knows that who he really is is not what the world wants him to be.

And all England wants to do right now is go home and cast a circle for them both, a place to be safe and warm and maybe relish the few securities they are granted.


End file.
